


Commedia Dell’arte

by ThereminVox



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:54:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21627163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: “The secret of the successful fool... is that he’s no fool at all.”-Isaac Asimov
Kudos: 25





	Commedia Dell’arte

* * *

Arthur Fleck enters his work establishment on the first day of December with a Grinch’s spirit threatening to splinter the thickness of his bearded brow. Bowing his head down, he makes a show of checking his shirt pocket, examining the area intently. He acknowledges a name tag, invisible to the public eye. He imagines it etching his name in stark carmine lettering:

**HI, MY NAME IS** **_ARTHUR_ ** **_._ **

He imagines his colleagues addressing him, respectfully. Imagines the name uttered sincerely, without jeering or patronising. The piercing veil of reality conveys differently. His name, whilst expelled, evinced an offending odour. Too cumbersome a weight to balance upon the tongue with any lick of honesty. Instead, they called him ‘Cackleberry’. A prefix alluding to the sound evoked by a hen, akin to a cackle. A suffix alluding to the fruit of the hen’s labour. _An egg._

**_CACKLEBERRY_ **.

But, that wasn’t his name. 

By contractual obligation, he should be addressed as ‘Carnival’. That is to say, a modest party clown slaving away for peanuts and crumbs in a place that rivalled his namesake. Hoyt, the callous ring leader. “Ha-Ha’s”: the circus itself, collapsing gradually beneath the weight of its own fleering characters. Pierrots, Pantalons and Punchinellos alike. Gathered together for the comedy of art. Laughing in solidarity. If only one laugh in particular wasn’t so flayed alive by the burning spotlight of derision...

They mock his laugh. Whether voiced by Carnival or Arthur, his laugh is phlegm to be purged. The very bane of his existence, which excludes him. Forbidding his tongue from supping the fruit of acceptance. A taste that was bitter when ripe and sweet when poisoned. 

_Bullshit,_ Randall would say. _Think with that pea brain, Gary._ As if he couldn’t hear. As if he failed to comprehend the seething whispers pricking at his spine, bruising the drooping shoulders with shuddered sighs, whilst brooding at the lockers. All before closing time. _Arthur doesn’t have a condition._ Blood pounding through his ears. Distant gunshots ringing. _It’s just a ruse to gain pity for profit._ The paper bag rustling in his crushing grip. If only _they_ could hear. If only the echo of omen was resounding enough. To warn them of the judgment that was to visit them upon a day. 

In the visionary range of his mind, the hammer of his gifted pistol cocks a vivid reel of sanguinary retribution. With his lipliner, wig, and homely threads, he could easily go unsuspected in the act. When God’s revenge against murder reflects his placid wrath in the mirror, a single ripple of conflict in the glass will trigger the click that seals the deserved victim’s fate. 

But, it was best not to dwell on such thoughts. At least, not within vicinity of potential adversaries. So, he waits. His patience, a force to be reckoned. A remarkable test of restraint pursues his confident stride as Arthur punches out for the afternoon, despondent and teetering on the edge. The edge of ‘what’, precisely, remaining unforeseen. 

He laughs in spite of himself. His laughter is a spell to spite them, for it was they who provided the soil to the breeding ground of his punchlines. With their exhaustive supply of humourless comedy, the crops were ever flourishing. The spice of a seasoned harvest never delayed. 

One day soon… they would hear his name. 

Today, however, was not that day. 

The stairs of Sisyphus beckon. The whetted edge of twilight threatens again to pierce his fragile soul. To him, each day seems to extend the set by two steps, making his daily ascent all the more exigent an effort. Yet, he persists. Continues to manage his undeserved fate. Yet, the matter of his judgment leaves much to be desired. No one was truly innocent. Not on this stage. Not to this insatiable audience. 

A stadium of lifeless puppets. Of fraying strings. Arthur returns to his apartment with calloused fingers and fractured dreams. Before rest possesses him later that night, his medication is haunting. There, in the margins of his prescription, one lone wolf stands proudly amid the stark black lettering. 

**_Carnival_** **_Fleck._**


End file.
